


Don't You Know Me?

by ScorpioLight



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast), The Mechanisms (Band)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Long Lost/Secret Relatives, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, lyf is here because i love them, major character death but its mostly the mechs so its fine
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-07
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:00:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24051733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScorpioLight/pseuds/ScorpioLight
Summary: Jon has lost everything in his life. His mother passed when he was born, and he never got to meet his father. His only company as a child were his grandmother, his brother, and his books. Of course, his grandmother did not care for him, his brother was taken from him, and his books betrayed him.--Jonny destroyed everything in his life. Even in death, his mother hated him, and his father's death came by Jonny's own hand. The only thing he did not crush with unrelenting cruelty was his brother. But Jonny couldn't even have that, could he?--Title is from Actaea and Lyssa (ON TEMPORARY HIATUS FOR MENTAL HEALTH REASONS)
Relationships: Jonny d'Ville & Jonathan Sims, Jonny d'Ville & Nastya Rasputina, Lyfrassir Edda/Marius von Raum, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Sasha James/Tim Stoker, The Aurora/Nastya Rasputina
Comments: 141
Kudos: 446
Collections: Mechanisms and Magnus Crossovers that maintain the integrity of mechanisms lore





	1. Lying Here Amongst the Flowers

Jon woke up from a nightmare, as he was beginning to get used to. It seemed like not a single night would go by where he wasn’t waking up in the middle of the night, curling himself into a ball underneath his heavy blanket, biting back tears so as not to rouse his grandmother, who was particularly irate during the nighttime. He squeezed his eyes shut, blocking out the dark shape in his open closet that he  _ logically knew  _ was just the oversized overcoat his grandmother had insisted he wear the day before. The old house creaked around him, settling on its old foundations, and Jon most certainly did  _ not  _ whimper. He was almost nine years old, he wasn’t scared of an old house, even if it was huge and unknown and full of cobwebs and weird noises that he couldn’t figure out where they were coming from! Besides, his grandmother had lived there her whole life, and she was a very old woman, so  _ logically,  _ if there was anything here, she would have known! There was nothing to be afraid of, then!

Something tapped at his window, and Jon yelped, jumping back to the foot of his bed. He rapidly blinked, making the tears that were  _ most definitely not there  _ fade away. His eyes focused, and through the darkness, and the blur of his vision without his glasses, he could just barely make out the silhouette of the tree branch tapping at his window. Unless, of course, it was a monster, it’s long, thin arm reaching out to tap at his window, to slowly slide it open and pull Jon’s sleeping body out of his bed. No, no! Jon shook his head, burying himself in his blankets. Monsters weren’t real, it was simply a tree branch, it had always been there, there was nothing to get so worked up about!

It tapped again, and Jon shot out of bed. It was difficult to traverse his room in the pitch dark, but he made it over to the door, one hand gripped like a vice around the blanket draped over his shoulders, the other reaching out to slowly push the door open.

It creaked open, not loudly enough to wake his grandmother, but loud enough that Jon was convinced it would. He froze in the open doorway, utterly silent, listening for the sound of her footsteps to echo down the hallway. After a moment, he decided that he was in the clear, and pushed out into the cold hall, his blanket dragging behind him like a cloak.

Every step he took was quiet and calculated, making sure to walk down the center of the room so as not to bump into any of the bookshelves or those shelves of weird objects Jon didn’t know the name of. He listened silently, to the distant  _ tap, tap, tap  _ of the tree branch against his bedroom window, to every creak his feet made against the floorboards that made him freeze in place, for any sign of his grandmother rousing from her sleep to tell him off for being out of bed, and to the soft, gentle music, playing from the bedroom down the hall. It was a melody Jon could never memorize, as every night there was a slight change, and by the end of the week, it would be a completely different song. Tonight it was slow, sad, and mournful, and Jon shut his eyes, listening to the muffled tune through the shut door. The song grew to a crescendo, and Jon’s heart swelled along with it, only for it to abruptly stop. There was a moment of silence, before Jon could hear the muffled sound of annoyed grumbling behind the door. Tentatively, he reached up and knocked twice on the door, quiet and polite. The grumbling stopped, and Jon took that as an invitation to push open the door.

On the bed, his brother sat, cross-legged with a journal in his lap. Pages had been torn out and scattered, the scribbling on the pages utterly incoherent to Jon. His brother pinned him with a curious stare, harmonica still raised to his lips. He played a single, inquisitive note, before he lowered it and spoke to his little brother.

“Nightmare?” He asked, and Jon didn’t want to admit that he was scared of  _ the monster in his closet,  _ of all things, so he simply nodded. His brother nodded back, a silent nod of understanding, and patted the space on the bed next to him. Jon would have sprinted over to the bed, but he still had the blanket around him, and it would have tripped him up, so he simply walked over as his older brother gathered up the papers to place them on top of the growing stack on his nightstand. Jon hopped up onto the bed, instinctively curling into his brother’s warmth. 

~o0o~

Here was the thing about these two brothers: They never referred to each other by their names. It would be far too confusing, and they already got enough confusion from their peers and teachers. The younger would always refer to the elder as  _ his older brother _ to others, and more often than not  _ jerk  _ to his face, as it was an honestly accurate description. The elder usually called his little brother all sorts of insults he found funny, although not particularly original, mainly because he was saving all of his creative energy for making actual insults for people he didn’t like, rather than affectionate nicknames that happened to be rude. The eldest brother’s name was Jonathan Sims, although he was known as Jonny by all of his friends, as well as all of his enemies. And he had quite a few of those, constantly drumming up trouble and chaos. The problem here, and the reason why the pair never used each other’s names, was that the younger brother was also named Jonathan Sims. His friends would have called him Jon, if they had existed. When their mother had a complication during the surgery, their grandmother had a name prepared, one she had been planning on giving her third son, before he had turned out to be a girl. When the doctors informed her that he already had an older brother of the same name who would also be falling under her care, well. She was a very stubborn woman. 

~o0o~

“Feeling any better?” Jonny murmured, and Jon responded by curling into a tighter ball. “Guess not.” Jonny sighed, wrapping his arms around him a little tighter. “Do you want to talk about it?” 

Jon paused, his face squished against his chest. A silence passed over the two, before Jon slowly shook his head. That was alright though, as Jon never wanted to talk about what scared him at night. They were similar, in that regard, Jonny figured. They were both stubborn. 

Jon shifted, so that his head rested on his side. The two held each other close in silence, and Jon let the sounds of the night be quietly drowned out by the gentle rhythmic  _ thump, thump, thump  _ of Jonny’s heartbeat. 


	2. One-Eyed Jacks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> alternate chapter title: Jonny and the terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day
> 
> Content Warnings: gambling, implied parental murder, manipulation, gore, arachnophobia, physical violence, child death

The sound of voices suddenly filled Jonny’s ears, and he turned his head to see Jon at their grandmother’s side as she pushed open the front door. She had plastic bags of groceries in each hand, while Jon only carried one, overflowing with books. He was babbling on about some war memorial he had learned about in school that day, although it didn’t look like she was listening. She looked over to Jonny, and seeing that he was pulling on his coat, pinned him with a cold, pointed glare. There was probably meaning behind it, perhaps a warning to not cause any trouble, but Jonny honestly couldn’t find it in him to give a shit. He knew she hated him, probably suspected him for what happened to her son-in-law. She wasn’t wrong.

“There’s so many kid’s books in here!” Jon interrupted his own ramblings to whine, and their grandmother sighed, setting down the grocery bags on the kitchen counter to pinch the bridge of her nose. 

“Just be glad there are any books, Jonathan,” She sighed. “The cashier was telling me they were nearly fresh out before that nice young doctor donated those. You should be grateful to her.” She huffed, and Jon frowned, turning back to the bag. Jonny tuned her out as she continued to talk, yammering on about how Jon should respect his elders or study hard in school or whatever. Jonny ruffled his little brother’s hair as he passed the two to leave, but Jon had seemed to tune out his surroundings, focusing on the bundle of books in his arms. Jonny didn’t have to turn around and look to know his grandmother was glaring at him as he left.

The winter air bit into him as he stepped out into the streets, and he shoved his hands into his pockets. The frigid wind still stung his cheeks, but he managed to keep his pace casual, and confident. He knew he was going to need it. He could hear shouts from the playground that was about a block away, a mix of joy and laughter and fear. He didn’t know any of the kids, although he recognized a few from when he picked Jon up from school. He could see more as he walked past it. An older kid was towering over one of the scrawnier ones, laughing and jeering. A girl, who had to be around ten years old, jumped off from the top of the playground and landed in the tanbark below. She jumped back up with a boisterous laugh, before chasing after another kid, around the same age as her. Jonny tore his gaze away, focusing instead on watching his breath coiled like smoke into the cold winter night. He didn’t need to remind himself of the childhood he never got to have. He set his jaw, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets to fight off the chill and shoving his thoughts deeper into his mind to fight off the feeling of being watched. 

It honestly had begun to feel like not a damn day went by where he wasn’t being watched. It seemed like someone was always just out of sight, peering at him through a shop window or from across the street. Sometimes he would try to be sneaky and look back, trying to catch prying eyes in a reflection. But no one would be there, no eyes watching him from the crowd. He figured it must be his own paranoia, but he had never had a problem with being watched. If fact, he revelled in attention, ate it up like it was his dying meal. His grandmother called him an attention hog, although only when she wasn’t busy calling him a little devil. 

He continued to walk in silence, pushing down the music he desperately wanted to push out of his throat. It would have calmed his rattling nerves, sure, but he didn’t want to risk becoming conspicuous. Not here, and not now. The surrounding city grew slowly darker, the houses yellowing with age and the concrete sidewalk giving way to thick earth that his feet sunk into with every step. By the time he stopped moving, feet planted firmly on the dirt outside that damned shitty casino, he felt as if his legs were halfway into the ground. A chill ran through him, cutting him down to the bone as he grasped the stone handle. He could convince himself his hands weren’t shaking, but it was harder to convince himself he wasn’t choking as he pushed into the casino. It was cramped as hell, barely an inch to move as the bodies filled the space, murmuring quiet nonsense to themselves as they bet their lives and families away to the cards. Jonny had no sympathy for them, each one of them trapped in a grave they themselves had dug. Jonny pushed past them, further into the oppressive humidity of the casino. He scanned the room, ignoring all of the desolate expressions the patrons wore, mourning for the lives they themselves had destroyed. For a moment, Jonny thought he could see his father, but he remembered the ringing in his ears, and the pool of blood on the floor, and the figure shuffled away, hunching over a stack of chips. 

It seemed like an absurdly long time before Jonny spotted Jack, but when he did, Jonny cursed himself for missing him. He was so obvious, leaning back in a cushioned chair, casually shuffling a deck of cards. His table was the only open space in the whole house, and his face was the only one with a fucking grin. Jonny shoved through the crowd to get to him, ignoring the pathetic sounds of protest from the other patrons, and doing his best to ignore the sound of blood rushing in his ears. Jack’s gaze lazily followed the movement, his eyebrows furrowing, as if the patrons shouldn’t be moving on their own. Then his gaze landed on Jonny, and his face lit up with a  _ disgusting _ expression of what, pride? Jonny glowered at the man, slamming himself into the empty seat across from him. His fingers twitched in his pockets, itching to wrap around the man’s throat as he cackled. 

“Welcome to the house, my boy!” Jack said with a grin, spreading his arms out wide. His voice was rough, like a cough if it had been formed into words. He grinned rakishly down at him, and Jonny just barely held himself back from smashing the glass of whiskey Jack slid over to him and using it to slit his throat. He tried to school his expression into something resembling calm, or at least something  _ not  _ resembling all-encompassing rage and hatred. Clearly, it didn’t work, as Jack’s grin widened, the cheerful expression of pride taking on a more sinister air. “Always a pleasure to see Billy’s boy.” The man chuckled, and Jonny nearly launched himself at the man.

“Shut up.” He spat instead, trying to lace his voice with as much malice and bloodlust as he could muster. He knew the man was older, more experienced, and much, much more powerful than he was. And Jonny was in his domain. There was no way Jonny could kill him, not here and not now. He’d choke the moment he moved a muscle aggressively. So he sat there, resolving instead to glare daggers at the dirt underneath his fingernails. Anything other than that  _ damned  _ grin. 

“Your daddy told me you were quite the dab hand at the cards.” The filthy hands stilled from their shuffling, laying the cards flat on the table. “How’s about a game of Texas hold ‘em?”

No sooner than Jonny spat out a wrathful, “fine,” did he feel himself being crushed on either side. The two gamblers stared at him with sorrowful faces, dirt-caked cards placed gingerly in their frail hands. 

“Ante up, gentlemen!” Jack cackled, and the game began. 

About three rounds in, Jack opened his  _ fucking  _ mouth again. “Did your father ever tell you about playing here, boy?”

“I know enough.” Jonny choked out, shaking the dirt off of his palms as he drew another card. Jack laughed in response. “He had a debt, and from your perspective, that meant he needed to die.” Blood rushed in his ears as he heard Jack let out _ yet another fucking laugh. What the fuck was so funny about making Jonny kill his own damn father?  _

“No, son.” Jack laughed. “He needed to be  _ buried _ .” 

By the time Jonny began to stagger home, the moon just started to rise. The freezing winter air was a welcome relief, compared to the unrelenting choke of the casino. The air got fresher and more breathable as he stumbled further and further away from the casino, and soon he could see the playground again. The playground wasn’t empty as Jonny expected it to be, despite it being as late as it was. From what he could see at this distance, there was a group of teenagers, laughing and drinking and generally being a nuisance. One of them was broken off from the rest of the group, towering over a small child who looked-  _ oh. _

Oh,  _ hell no. _

Jonny was filled with rage, bloodlust towards Jack and his  _ fucking casino  _ and his grandmother who hated his  _ fucking guts  _ and having to pull the trigger on his  _ own fucking father  _ and how  _ dare  _ this fucking asshole pick on his  _ eight-year-old brother?  _

Unfortunately, it’s hard to chase after a teenager and a surprisingly quick eight-year-old when your head is stuffed full of bloodlust and whiskey, and by the time he’s made his way to the playground, the two have disappeared around the corner down some street Jonny didn’t know well. He gave chase, but there were no signs of either of them. He frantically began searching, checking every window and every porch for his little brother. The street was silent, even as Jonny called out for his brother, turning his voice hoarse in the process. Only when an old couple shouted at him to  _ shut the hell up, people are trying to sleep  _ did he stop his incessant screaming. He was beginning to lose his frantic energy, despair seeping into his skin and into his bones and into his heart. Despair that he might have lost his little brother, that some asshole fucking teenager went and kidnapped him, that he’d find his tiny little body limp in a storm drain on the edge of town.

Then he found the book.

It was lying on the front steps of an old, decaying house, the pure black of the cover stark against the grey concrete, catching his eye. He had seen it in Jon’s hands that evening, when he was shuffling through all the fairytales and poetry books and math textbooks. Feeling a spark of hope, Jonny knelt down and gingerly picked it up, carefully opening the front cover. It had a bookplate, proclaiming it to be “ _ From the Library of Jurgen Leitner”.  _ It seemed weirdly fancy for a children’s book, but that was just  _ so Jon,  _ wasn’t it? He glanced up at the door, its frame looming over his kneeling form. He tossed the book aside, determination settling in his chest as he slowly pushed the door open.

It gave way with no resistance, swinging open silently to the pitch dark house. Jonny stood up, shaking from the cold and the anger and the worry - definitely  _ not  _ from the fear. The floorboards creaked underneath his shoes, and with the small sliver of moonlight, he could see inside the old house. 

“Four-eyes?” Jonny called out one of his dumb nicknames for the kid, grimacing at how hoarse his voice sounded. His eyes followed the small bit of light being let in from the cracks in the door, displaying a small table in the centre of the room, where a vase of flowers was wilting pitifully. 

“Jon?” He called, fear that he tried so hard to deny seeping into his voice as he stepped further into the dreary house. The creaking slowed, being replaced with the gentle  _ splash  _ of stepping in a puddle. Jonny looked down, to see his boot beginning to soak in a black puddle on the floor, and although he could not make out the colour in the faint moonlight, he had a terrible feeling deep in his heart that it was a deep crimson. The liquid quietly  _ drip, drip, dripped  _ into the puddle, and droplets fell helplessly onto his cheek. He slowly craned his neck upwards, to see the horrific shape planted on the ceiling. Whatever was in its… mouth? Dripped down onto Jonny, and he was certain his heart stopped when he saw the hanging corpse’s glasses glint in the moonlight.

No.

_ No no no no no no no  _ **_NO._ **

_ He was supposed to protect him, how the FUCK could he have let this happened? He was so caught up in the bullshit with Jack; he didn’t even notice- this couldn’t be happening. How could he HAVE LET THIS FUCKING HAPPEN? His brother was dead and it was ALL HIS FUCKING FAULT  _ **_THIS FUCKING MONSTER KILLED HIS BABY BROTHER HOW COULD HE HAVE JUST LET HIM DIE THIS THING NEEDED TO FUCKING PAY IT NEEDED TO FUCKING DIE_ **

Jonny only became aware of the screaming after his voice gave out, hoarse and pained. He felt a  _ snap,  _ although he wasn’t sure if it was from him or the spider as he brought his foot down on its spindly leg. The thing was practically wrapped around him, the only thing stopping it from snapping its blood-smeared fangs around his head was his elbow, shoved down its fucking throat and forcing its mouth open. The arm was probably broken at this point, but Jonny’s whole fucking body was screaming in pain and he honestly didn’t give a shit. 

He stamped on its leg again, and this time the  _ snap  _ definitely came from the spider as the leg came off with a spurt of sticky blood. It bore down on Jonny’s arm  _ harder,  _ and if his voice let him scream anymore, he would have. With what little strength he had left, he jammed the severed leg into the thing’s eye. It  _ squelched,  _ and Jonny nearly vomited, his head swirling with rage and bloodlust and despair. It flailed pathetically, and Jonny took the opportunity to wrench his arm back from the thing’s mouth. He laughed triumphantly, using the last of his voice and his breath. Of course, it was then the spider took this as an opening to use its last bit of strength to plunge its fangs deep into his heart.

The last thing Jonny felt as he died was falling into two sturdy arms. He looked up, vision fading, and his final dying thought was that  _ she has the same fangs as the spider.  _

~o0o~

Jon awoke to the sound of police sirens, and the voice of his grandmother talking downstairs. He sat up in bed, curious, before the memory of the previous day came crashing back to him, and he whimpered, burying himself in his blankets. 

He could almost hear the quiet movement of Mr Spider’s legs, ever moving in that tiny room, caked in gore. Jon’s stomach lurched, and he couldn’t even bring himself to feel ashamed of the tears that rolled down his cheeks. He curled into himself, the fear and horror too much for the small body that he was trapped in, and all he could bring himself to do was sob violently. He shook terribly, clutching his blankets around him, hoping desperately they’d be an effective replacement for firm arms and comforting words and a rhythmic heartbeat. But of course, they weren’t. A chill ran through him, cutting through the thick blankets and pulling another choked sob from his throat. He stared at the door, the one his grandmother had agreed to leave open after his panic-induced screaming fit. Slowly, sobs still bubbling out of his mouth, he stood from his bed and crept towards the door. He stepped into the hallway, his socks muffling his steps but his whimpers giving away his presence. He wrapped the blankets tighter around himself, as if they would feel like a proper hug if he squeezed them tightly around himself enough. The voices downstairs quieted slightly as he choked back another wail of grief, and he covered his mouth. Jonny’s door did not open, even though it usually slammed open whenever Jon started to cry. 

As he stayed silent, the voices rose back to their normal volume. Jon knelt down on the floor, crawling over to the stairs to peer through the bars down at their conversation. The front door was open, and there was a policewoman standing in it. That in and of itself was not a terribly unusual sight to see, as Jonny often got himself into trouble and escorted home by police. What was strange, was that he did not see Jonny anywhere near the two women, and the policewoman had a strange expression on her face, one Jon couldn’t name. She was saying something to their grandmother, although Jon had to strain to hear it.

“... was quite a lot of blood at the scene. Unfortunately, not all of it is human, so it’s going to be difficult to run any tests. We’ve ruled it a wild animal attack.” 

His grandmother said nothing, and Jon ran. 

He pushed open Jonny’s bedroom door to find it empty, a cold, desolate space where there  _ should be life,  _ but there’s nothing. Instead, there was silence, and it felt so  _ cruel.  _ This room should have been full of music, Jonny playing on his harmonica obnoxiously loudly to annoy everyone, or coming up with a new song, or singing softly to himself as he very pointedly did not do his schoolwork. Or holding Jon close and telling him that everything was going to be alright. The tears started flowing again, harder than ever, and Jon all but threw himself onto the bed. It didn’t feel right, without Jonny’s legs to curl up in, his arms wrapping around him to hold him close.  _ You’re okay, four-eyes.  _ He would have laughed, as Jon twisted his tiny little fists into his shirt.  _ I’m here now. I’m not gonna let anything happen to you. _

Jon sobbed into the empty sheets.


	3. Let's Get This Party Started, the Only Way We Know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter took so long! Unfortunately, while I can try and have each chapter out on a weekly basis, it's probably going to be fairly irregular :pensive: 
> 
> I don't have a brain it's just Nastya in there

Jon only realized that he had been fidgeting with the tape recorder when his finger slipped, accidentally hitting the play button and dragging his own staticky voice out of the little machine.

“Statement of Kieran Woodward, regarding-” 

He jumped and slammed his palm onto the pause button, but the damage was done. Tim’s mouth snapped shut, returning to his default grin. Tim’s gaze flickered to the tape recorder in Jon’s hands.

“Sorry, boss,” Tim chuckled, leaning back with his hands splayed in mock surrender. “Didn’t mean to bore you.” 

Sasha quickly swatted at him, quick and scolding, and Jon pointedly tried to miss the fact that she hit him a bit lower than Jon was expecting. Still, it was a simple feat, given the fact that Tim was seated on top of her desk. Tim jumped in surprise, although his impish grin widened as he swivelled around to face her. 

“I uh- No, you weren’t- I mean I didn’t mean to-” Jon’s flustered stammering was cut off as Tim stifled his laughter. He felt his face grow warm, and Tim seemed to notice as he quickly raised his hands in a placating gesture. 

“No, no, it’s cool boss, I’m just teasing!” He reassured, his voice laced with a chuckle.

“Speaking of that statement, actually,” Sasha interjected, glancing at her computer screen. “Is Martin still out doing his follow-up interview with Mr Woodward?” She absentmindedly leafed through a few files on her desk, before looking around, apparently missing something. She frowned, swatting at Tim again. “Move your ass, Stoker.”

Tim complied, shifting his weight so that Sasha could yank the files she needed out from underneath him. He stuck his tongue out at her, but glanced back to Jon just in time to see the grimace pass over his face at the mention of their absent coworker. Tim’s shoulders slumped.

“Seriously Jon, you need to give Martin a break sometime.” Tim sighed, the jovial tone drained from his voice. “I really don’t see why you’re so hard on the poor guy.” 

“Perhaps I will ‘give him a break’ when he actually starts being  _ useful  _ for once.” Jon snapped, shooting daggers at Tim from over his glasses. Of course, with his focus trained on Tim, he completely missed the sly smile creeping over Sasha’s face. “Anyways, I don’t see why the two of you are just sitting around. We have work to do.” He quickly finished, spinning on his heel and walking into his office before the two started to fully lecture him. 

The sound of the pair beginning to giggle through the frustratingly thin office walls did nothing to soothe the bright red of his warming face.

It wasn’t that Jon  _ hated  _ Martin, per se, it was just that everything Martin did  _ irritated  _ Jon to no end. Like how Martin had memorized exactly how Jon liked his tea, without ever asking him. How he would bring him a fresh cup every day, and set it gently and quietly on his desk. He would never say anything either, but the smallest, sweetest smile would play at his lips, and Jon would get that weird feeling in his stomach that just had to be irritation. It was the worst on days when they were both in early, and Martin hadn’t pulled his hair up into the tiny ponytail he usually had it in. On those days, Martin’s hair would fall like a curtain over his eyes as he placed the mug on his desk, and he would quickly tuck a lock of it behind his ear before looking up at Jon through his lashes. Then he would smile. 

Jon  _ definitely  _ hated Martin’s hair, though. It was a soft, sunset pink, although Jon could see that it used to be brown, as his roots were growing in. They turned ginger when they hit the light. It was  _ unprofessional,  _ Jon reasoned, to have dyed hair in an academic job such as this one, even if they didn’t interact with the public down in the archives as much as Jon and Tim had back in research. Or rather, as much as Tim had back in research. He supposed he couldn’t complain about the length, however, as Jon’s was beginning to reach his shoulders when it wasn’t pulled into a tight bun. Although he wanted to, as it was always falling into Martin’s eyes, and Jon had to push back the urge to brush it away from his face. You can’t do your work if you can’t see, after all. 

Martin also wore large, rounded glasses, that always seemed to make his eyes stand out whenever Jon looked at him. They crinkled around the corners whenever he smiled, and he would always gingerly bite his lip just before he was about to laugh. 

Jon shot a glance to the mug sat on his desk, cold and now nearly empty. Martin had placed it down the same way he always did, looking up at Jon with warm brown eyes, and Jon had merely scowled in response. Jon grabbed the cup, moving it to the side of his desk to grab the papers behind it. He may as well do what he lectured Tim and Sasha about and get to work. He slid a new tape into the recorder, clicking it on.

“Statement of Timothy Hodge, regarding his sexual encounter with-” 

A knock came at the door, one Jon knew to be Martin. Sasha knocked rapid and firm, her knuckles sharp against the hard wood, while Tim tapped loudly, a somewhat melodic beat to whatever music seemed to always be playing in his heart. Martin knocked twice, soft and quiet, barely audible as if he was trying to be unnoticed. Of course, it still interrupted Jon’s recording, so he paused the tape with a sigh. 

“Come in, Martin.” 

Martin pushed open the door, poking his head inside before stepping further into Jon’s cramped office space. For someone so large, Martin always seemed to look small, with how he would shrink into himself and hold himself close. He was fidgeting with his hands, not an unusual sight to see.

“Erm, I finished interviewing Mr Woodward, like you asked,” 

He finally glanced away from his hands for a moment to look at Jon, who suddenly felt the need to focus very intently on the statement in front of him, if just to avoid looking into Martin’s eyes. “He, uh, hm.” Martin glanced away again.   
  
“Spit it out, Martin.” Jon sighed.

“He wasn’t very helpful,” Martin finally said, a little crease forming between his eyebrows as he frowned. “He did mention that there hadn’t been any more bags at number 93 since he made his statement, but…” He trailed off, looking back down at his hands. “He’s pretty convinced that he made up whatever he saw.” Jon nodded. It wasn’t unusual for statement givers to either forget what they saw, or at least pretend they had. But something about the way Martin spoke had him raising an eyebrow. 

“Was there anything else?” He pressed, and Martin pursed his lips, rubbing his arm.

“Sort of? Mr Woodward claimed that he saw someone- some _ thing?  _ When he went back recently, and it was rummaging through the bins. He says that it looked like a… soldier, I think?” 

“He saw a soldier rummaging through the bins?”

“Yeah, I was confused, too. I asked him and he told me, no, whatever it was it was  _ dressed  _ like a soldier, like one of those old victorian types all in red. But it was… fake, somehow. And then, when I tried to press further, ask him what he meant, he started shouting at me, telling me to get out of his house, so…” Martin looked back down, a sheepish expression spreading over his face. “I did.”

Jon hummed in response. That information… wasn’t exactly useless, he supposed. It wasn’t exactly helpful, either, as it didn’t do anything to help the pieces fall into place, just added a completely new piece to the puzzle. “Thank you, Martin,” he said with a frown, and Martin took that as his cue to quickly duck out of his office. Jon swapped back to the old tape, taking a deep breath before he hit record.

“I had Martin conduct a follow-up interview with Mr Woodward, but it was unenlightening…”

~o0o~

“Jon, would you please tell Tim that he’s a furry?” Was the first thing out of Sasha’s mouth as Jon stepped out of his office. He stared at her in bewilderment.

“I’m… sorry? What’s this about?” 

Tim was howling with laughter, now at his own desk -- although he was still sitting  _ on top  _ of it, instead of in a chair like a sensible person. “All I’m saying is that The Beast from Beauty and the Beast was  _ much  _ more attractive a beast than a regular dude.” 

“And  _ I’m  _ saying that A: You’re a furry.” Sasha leaned over her desk, her words laced with laughter. “B: It’s Disney, everything has to be attractive no matter what, and C-”

“Woah, woah, woah, hang on a second.” Tim interrupted. “That is  _ objectively  _ not true. The old hag in Snow White was designed to be ugly!” 

“Fine, everything that’s not  _ evil  _ was designed to look attractive, then.”

“But wasn’t the whole point that the prince was cruel at first, and he was cursed to look horrible on the outside because he was horrible on the inside?” Martin piped up, and Jon had to admit he jumped a little. He hadn’t noticed Martin, as he was near the back of the room, a box of files in his hands. “That’s why he turned human in the end, ‘cause he learned how to be kind.”

“Sure, that’s how the plot goes,” Sasha said, swivelling around in her chair so she could see Martin. “But it’s still Disney, and he’s the love interest. He can’t look  _ too  _ repulsive, it’s a movie for kids.”

“Aha! So you  _ admit  _ he’s attractive!” Tim pumped his fist into the air, nearly losing his balance in the process.

“ _ Not  _ what I said. Besides, if you saw the Beast in real life, I suspect you’d be singing quite the different tune.”

“Oh no no, I’d be down to smash,” Tim said with a grin, causing Sasha to burst into laughter. Jon fiddled with his coat, unsure of what to say.

“Erm. Why are we talking about Beauty and the Beast exactly?” He finally asked. Tim stared blankly, apparently forgetting what had drawn them to their current line of conversation. 

“We were talking about going out for a karaoke night sometime after work.” Sasha supplied. “Tim mentioned doing a Disney themed set, since he just rewatched Frozen, which got us talking about how hot Kristoff was, which got us talking about Disney princes, which got us to the fact that Tim is a furry.”

“Am not!”

“Sure.”

Tim folded his arms, giving Sasha an exaggerated pout. She stuck her tongue out at him. Tim laughed again, before turning back to Jon. “So, do you think you’re up for it?” Tim asked.

“Er, up for what?” Jon asked, as he had gotten a bit lost in the pair’s back-and-forth banter.

“Karaoke night! It’ll just be the four of us!” Tim said, gesturing around the room.

“I, uh. I’m not much of a singer…” Jon admitted. He wasn’t about to admit his general distaste for music, as he was aware he was already seen as the sort with, as Tim had so eloquently put it, ‘a stick up his ass’. Besides, it was a bit too heavy for casual office discussion to tell them his brother had been a musician, before he got brutally murdered by a giant spider. That definitely wasn’t real.

“Oh, don’t worry, you don’t have to sing!” Sasha encouraged.

“Although we might try and peer pressure you.” Tim snickered. “Come on, it’ll be fun!”

Jon pursed his lips. He didn’t particularly want to go, but he would hate to lose Tim and Sasha’s favour. They both seemed so excited about the idea, and he really didn’t want to see either of them disappointed. Besides, he had gotten off to such a rocky start with them, so there was always the possibility it could make him seem… less of an ass. Of course, that was ignoring the incredibly high possibility that Jon would do something stupid, and thus make himself look like even  _ more  _ of an ass. Still, better the possibility of making a fool of himself than outright being an asshole and saying no. “I… Suppose it couldn’t hurt.” He sighed, glancing down at the stack of papers in his hands. 

~o0o~

When Tim had said he would ‘peer pressure’ him, Jon hadn’t expected him to physically drag him to the karaoke machine. Five drinks and a frankly terrible rendition of “I Won’t Say I’m In Love” later, Jon was curled in the corner of their booth, face buried in his hands. Martin was sat across from him, his cheeks reddened from a combination of alcohol and embarrassment. Tim and Sasha were still hogging the machine, draped over each other and belting out a drunken travesty he could barely recognise was supposed to be “Hakuna Matata”. 

“I, er. Liked your singing.” Martin piped up, staring into his glass. Jon blinked a few times, trying to get the words to properly register in his brain.

“Well, you’ve had quite a bit to drink.” He said with a chuckle, and Martin’s eyes shot to him in an instant. Jon couldn’t quite be sure, but he seemed redder than he had been a moment ago. Embarrassment, perhaps?

“I haven’t had that much.” 

Jon shrugged, glancing over to where Tim and Sasha had started up a new song. “Are you going to sing?” He asked absentmindedly, only barely seeing Martin shake his head out of the corner of his eye.

“No, not drunk enough for that yet.” Martin laughed, and Jon was very deliberately looking away now because Martin was doing that thing again where he laughed softly and bit his lip and tucked his hair behind his hair and oh dammit, Jon  _ really shouldn’t have come- _

Tim whooped suddenly, calling something incoherent to the pair still seated at the booth, although Jon could barely hear it over the music. Jon shook his head in response. 

“It’s too loud, we can’t hear you!” Martin called, as if Tim would be able to hear him back. Sasha leaned over, whispering something to Tim, and the pair grinned deviously at each other. Jon and Martin exchanged a look, their confusion matching. 

Then the opening bars to “Kiss the Girl” flooded through the speakers, and Martin buried his face in his hands. 


	4. Gunfire and Explosions, That's Our Cue!

Jonny hesitated outside the door to the engine room. Normally he didn’t hesitate, hell, he  _ never  _ hesitated, charging blindly into battle and into chaos with a grin on his face and a frenzied song where his heart used to be. In fact, if you were to so much as  _ imply  _ that he had  _ ever  _ hesitated, he’d likely tear you limb from limb and devour your corpse meat simply for the hell of it.

But he hesitated now. 

There was murmuring behind the door, only one voice he could hear, but he knew it was a conversation. An important one too, it just had to be, and who was he to interrupt?

That was  _ stupid  _ of course, he was Jonny fucking d’Ville, he did whatever the hell he wanted! He didn’t care about bullshit like  _ feelings,  _ and  _ love. _ But his hand still slowed when he tried to reach for the handle. He bit back a curse, shoving his hands into his pockets. 

The Aurora was quiet, had been since they had grabbed a hold of that tiny little transport vessel. She probably knew the moment it had docked, maybe even the moment they had scanned the ship. Jonny had been excited, it had been so  _ long  _ since he had done any really  _ good  _ violence. Tim and Ashes were geared up, prepared to roast something to hell, and he pointedly ignored Brian’s suggestion that maybe they should leave some things undamaged so they could do repairs to their own ship.  _ Fuck the ship,  _ Jonny had spat, before realizing the words tasted like bile in his mouth without the quick snark he had become so accustomed to in response. 

Tim made quick work of the sealed door, and the person behind it stood their ground well, before Jonny’s gun tore through them, and they fell limply to the floor. He supposed he hadn’t paid much attention to their blood, or maybe he just assumed rainbow was the natural colour for their species. The person had insisted they were alone on the ship, so Jonny ran off to find whoever they were hiding. The chase would be fun, and he was looking forward to the screaming of someone who was so  _ sure  _ they were hidden, and the violent spurts of crimson blood as he silenced them. 

The ship was small, and she was easy to find, but the thrill of the chase turned to ice-cold horror as he squeezed the trigger. She did not scream as the bullet pierced through her, and Jonny’s eyes widened as he saw drops of silver mercury pour out of her. She did not look at him with annoyance, the way she had so often when he had shot her thousands of times before. She looked up at him, her expression full of sorrow and guilt and fear, and somehow that hurt a million times more than a gunshot ever could.

So now he stood outside the door to the engine room, clenching and unclenching his fists inside his pockets. A million thoughts ran through his skull, and he was of half a mind to put a bullet through it, just to get them to shut up. 

The door creaked open just before he could reach for his gun, and the first thing he noticed was that Nastya had been crying. He glanced to the open doorway behind her, at the gently swaying tubes and blinking lights. He was never able to translate any of it, not like she could.

“Are you, uh…”

“Aurora told me you were waiting outside.” Nastya’s voice was quiet, and she gently stroked her fingers up and down the door frame. Some of his worries settled at the sight. She wouldn’t be touching her if the Aurora was angry.

“So you two are…?” 

Nastya nodded, the smallest sliver of a smile pulling at the corners of her mouth. Jonny nodded.

“Good, that’s- That’s good.” 

The two drifted into silence, a thousand unspoken words buzzing in their heads, but neither of them knowing how to let them out. They fidgeted, eyes drifting to various objects in the hall, at particularly interesting spots on the wall.

“I’m sorry.” Nastya’s voice cut through the silence, and Jonny snapped his head to her. Her head was bowed, staring at her boots as her overgrown hair fell in front of her face like a curtain.

“What the fuck do you have to be sorry for?” 

“I left you.” She looked up at him through broken lenses, a vulnerability Jonny hated coating her face. “I shouldn’t have-” 

“It was your own goddamn decision, Nastya, you have nothing to apologize for.”

Her head dipped again, her shoulders beginning to tremble. He wanted to rush over to her, to wrap his arms around her and comfort her, like the way he used to. But he couldn’t. He had no idea if she was ready for that, or would even want it. 

“It was selfish of me.” She wrapped her arms around herself, making Jonny’s chest tighten. “I thought she was gone. But she’s still here, and you’re still here, and I just  _ left-”  _

“Hey, hey, Nastya, no, it’s alright. Look,” Jonny moved forward, not close enough to touch her but close enough that she could if she wanted. “Look at me. It’s okay. It was- you were justified. You didn’t do anything wrong, and you’re definitely not  _ selfish.  _ Well, not for this, at least. I  _ do  _ remember someone  _ very rudely  _ stealing my clothes all the time.” Nastya laughed, a quick chuckle that made the tears roll faster down her face. “But you’re back now. That’s all that matters. Besides, what’s a couple thousand decades in the long run?”

“God, has it really been that long?” She groaned, wiping away her tears with the back of her hand. A little bit of glass fell out of her glasses where the lenses had broken, but she didn’t seem to notice.

“Six thousand, to be exact. But who’s counting.”

She smiled up at him, her face flushed with tear stains. He grinned back, and although that had never been a comforting image since, well, ever, she still took it as an invitation to throw her arms around him and pull him in for a hug. His fear and trepidation finally melting away, he hugged her back, practically engulfing her small frame. 

The Aurora finally began to hum again. 

~o0o~

“What the  _ hel  _ did you do to my ship?” Their new guest shouted, so loud that Jonny could hear it down the hall. A stowaway, Jonny had insisted, as Marius continued to refer to them as ‘their newest crewmember’.  _ Fine,  _ Jonny had said as Marius continued to press the matter.  _ We’ll call them Marius’ new stray.  _

They had seemed so small, trembling and pretending they were big as they insisted Nastya wasn’t on their ship, and they seemed so frail as they fell in a heap to the floor in a puddle of their own blood. Nastya insisted they take them onboard, so Ashes had dumped them on one of the couches. 

They had laid there like a small and fragile version of Briar Rose, a peaceful expression washed over their face, painting their death a beautiful image. Then the swirls of rainbow that made up their blood began to move and twist, knitting their wounds up and creeping back inside of them. They cried out as the rainbow seeped back into their veins, a weak, pitiful sound that bloomed from their lips. They blinked up at the ceiling, fear and hesitation overtaking their expression.

Then they saw Marius, and all of their small, fragile demeanour fell away in an instant. 

Jonny didn’t stay to watch the screaming match - or rather, their guest screaming at Marius as he did everything in his power to annoy them. But Jonny never saw the fearful and fragile Lyfrassir Edda again. Instead, the version of the former inspector that was now living alongside the rest of them was firm, confident and very, very easily irritated. Mostly by Marius. 

That was the person who was currently dragging a large chunk of  _ something  _ out of their ship. Whatever it was was badly burned, meaning Ashes had already finished their business with the former inspector’s ship. “I swear to the  _ gods,  _ you are all the most confusing, insufferable, deranged-”

“Yeah, yeah, we’ve heard it all before.” Jonny groaned. “We’re pirates, what do you want from us?”   
  
Lyfrassir jumped at his voice, fear flickering across their face before the anger settled back in. They dumped the whatever-the fuck-it-was on the floor with a huff, spinning on their heel to drag something else out of their ruined ship.

“Come to mock me as well, then?” They glared at Jonny as they emerged from the ship again, a bag slung over their shoulder and a stack of books in their arms. 

“Maybe I’m just enjoying watching you flail about with a bunch of nonsense that doesn’t matter.” Jonny folded his arms, leaning back against the wall. 

“So the answer is yes.” Lyfrassir sighed, adjusting the stack of books in their arms. “Which way’s the library?” They asked, although it didn’t seem entirely directed at him.

“Just keep walking. If Aurora wants you to get there, you’ll get there.” Jonny said with a shrug. Lyfrassir paused, confusion passing over their face.

“Er, sorr-” They clamped their mouth shut, and Jonny chuckled at their stubborn refusal to show him any politeness. “I’ve only been introduced to a few crew members at this point, I think. Who’s Aurora?” 

Jonny erupted into laughter, and the confused and annoyed expression that washed over their face only served to make him laugh harder. 

“You’re standing in her.” Jonny finally managed to get out between cackles, and Lyfrassir quickly jumped and looked to their feet like they were expecting to be on top of someone’s corpse. Seeing only the metal grating that made up the floor, they looked back to Jonny, who was now doubled over with laughter. 

“What the hel are you talking about? Is this an inside joke?” Lyfrassir demanded. Jonny gave no response other than laughter, so they simply huffed. “Fine, I’m sure I’ll meet her eventually, then.”

Jonny fell to the floor, still laughing hysterically.

~o0o~

“Here,” Lyfrassir handed the stack of books to Ivy, feeling some semblance of relief as her eyes lit up. She was always the least insufferable of the trio they had met back on Midgard, and it seemed that she was likely the least insufferable of the whole crew. “They’re not much, but they’re all I could get before…” They swallowed, the rest of their sentence dying on their tongue. She nodded, seeming to understand their pain. 

“They’ll be fine. Anything that survived will be invaluable, really, and I can use them to help restore the lost stuff. I’ll make copies, don’t worry. You can have them back once I’m finished.” She had already started to pull books from the stack, scanning over them two at a time. 

Lyfrassir glanced around the room, the bookshelves looming over them like skyscrapers. They looked back to Ivy, who seemed completely engrossed in the books they had given her. 

“Er, you don’t mind if I look around, do you?”   
  
“Sure,” She shrugged, not looking up. “Just try not to damage anything.” 

Lyfrassir nodded, moving away to wander the forest of shelves. It reminded them of the Völuspá, a massive library on Asgard that they had only ever seen in photographs. It had been a battleground for many riots after the train had failed to emerge, the lower class people of Asgard enraged at the censored history that only wrote of the triumphs of those in power. The building was never destroyed in the fighting thanks to the Völva, the mad prophet who lived in its halls, and who was the one for which the building was named. Neither rebel nor noble had ever managed to kill the Völva, and the Völuspá remained standing throughout the fighting.

And it was destroyed in the end, they supposed. Lyfrassir paused, their hand resting gingerly on a leather-bound book. Was this really all that was left of Yggdrasil? A handful of books, a few changes of clothes, the black box, and Lyfrassir themself? The tiny ship they had acquired to escape the system was now charred to irreparable ash, thanks to their new… companions? crewmates? captors? Lyfrassir tapped on the wooden bookshelf in front of them, trying to focus on anything other than the rising dread and sorrow deep within them.

Gods, they were all alone.

Even on this ship, surrounded by people, they were alone. Ivy could study and memorize everything about their culture, but she could never  _ be  _ from Midgard, or Asgard, or Vanaheim, or Hel, even Hel. Ivy, Raphaella and, ugh,  _ von Raum  _ had  _ been  _ on Midgard, but they had spent a majority of their time there in prison, and they had pretty much insisted they’d only ever speak to Lyfrassir. 

They would never see their family again. They were never close with their parents, only speaking to their father on holidays, and they never spoke to their mother anymore, after Lyfrassir’s political ideals had drifted away from her own. And now they would never even have the chance. They would never see the other officers in the precinct, as insufferable as the lot of them were. It still hurt. Their home, their planet, their culture, everyone they had ever met was just… Gone. 

They only realised that they had crumpled into a ball on the floor when someone gingerly touched their shoulder, bringing them back to their senses. Von Raum was knelt beside them, worry on his face as he gingerly held their sleeve. 

They blinked, feeling just a bit too hollow at the moment to feel anger or hate towards the man. Besides, he was quiet, simply kneeling by their side, barely touching them. “How long have I…”

“I’ve only been here for a few minutes, but I’m pretty sure you came in here about an hour ago.” He answered, his voice a soft murmur. Perhaps it was just because they were in the library, but it still had a twinge of comfort to it.

“Oh.”

Von Raum was silent for a moment, studying their face. “Are you breathing okay?” He asked, his eyebrows furrowed with worry.

Lyfrassir took a few slow deep breaths, before nodding. Once. Twice. 

“Okay. Okay, good- that’s. That’s good.” He nodded, pulling his hand away from their sleeve. “Do you… need anything?” 

Did they? Their knees ached from where they were kneeling on the floor, and the room was just slightly too cold. Lyfrassir leaned closer to von Raum and shook their head. 

“O-oh, okay.” He was warm, and that helped chase away the thoughts of the freezing cold beams of rainbow that would shine through their cracked window. “Well, I kinda came in here to bring you to dinner, but if you don’t want to be around everyone else right now, I can make you something-”

“No.” Lyfrassir shook their head, cutting him off. “No, I- I don’t want to be alone right now.”

“Oh, right. Yeah, of course.” Von Raum leaned forward, offering his hand to help them up. They paused, staring up at him, watching for any hint of insincerity in his face. Gingerly, they wrapped their hands around his arm and let him pull them to their feet. They stumbled a bit, and if that resulted in them leaning a little closer to him, well. It’s not like he seemed to have much of an issue with it. 

~o0o~

Dinner was loud, as Lyfrassir had expected. Jonny and Tim were battling for the seat at the head of the table, flinging food and bullets at each other. Brian and the Toy Soldier were bringing in food from the kitchen, although Brian told Lyfrassir  _ very  _ firmly, “Only pretend to eat what Toy Soldier’s made. Whatever you do, don’t eat it.” 

Lyfrassir sat down across from Ivy, who still had her head buried in one of the books they had given her, even as Brian sat a plate of food in front of her. Raphaella was beside her, rambling on about some experiment she had been working on, although if it was directed at Ivy she didn’t seem to be registering her words at all. 

Ashes nudged them, holding a full hand of cards. “Care to join?” They asked, pushing a stack over to them.

“I don’t know how to play.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Nastya said with a grin, sitting in the seat that Jonny and Tim were still fighting over. “Ashes cheats.”

“Then what’s the point of playing?” 

“Trying to figure out all of their tricks.”

“Good luck.” Ashes scoffed. “I’m still picking up new ones.”

“Alright,” Jonny suddenly shouted, sitting on the back of the chair beside Nastya. “Everyone shut the fuck up, I’m gonna talk now.”   
  


“Get your feet off the fucking table, you ass,” Ashes threw a playing card at his face. “I’m trying to eat.”   
  
“Absolutely the fuck not. Anyways,” Jonny paused only for a second as another card hit his face. “Jesus, shut the fuck up and listen to me. I am your goddamn captain-”   
  


“First Mate!” The room erupted in a synchronized shout, nearly startling Lyfrassir out of their chair. Jonny kicked the table and threw a piece of fruit at Tim, who had shouted the loudest. 

“Fine, you insubordinate motherfuckers! No new show!”

“Wait, we’re planning a new show?” Brian perked up, holding his balance as Jonny kicked his chair.

“Well, duh, asshole! Look, we’re doing a fucking reunion tour! What else would I be planning?”

“I dunno, a new scheme to get us all killed? A new album about jack shit?” Ashes shrugged, stealing from Tim’s plate.

“A trip to another space station that ends up with one of us getting left in a sun for a century?”   
  


“That was  _ one  _ goddamn time, Brian.”

“Sure.”

“Although,” Von Raum started, a grin on his face that drove a spike of dread into Lyfrassir’s stomach. “It’s not  _ just _ going to be a reunion tour, is it? We’ve got our newest crew member here, too!”

“Oh yeah, that’s true!” Tim turned to Lyfrassir with a grin as Jonny groaned dramatically. “Do you play any instruments, Lyf?”

“No,” Lyfrassir quickly lied.

“Wait, Jonny, you weren’t planning on doing this, like, now, were you?” Raphaella leaned forward, brushing the top of Ivy’s head with her wings as she rested her chin in her hands.

“Well, whenever we touch down on a planet next. We could do it at Oxford, that’s where we do all our debuts and shit anyways. Let’s put the Ragnarok shit on hold and work on a set for a reunion show.”

Lyfrassir had been slowly tuning out the conversation, too lost to keep track, but they were pulled back in at what sounded like Jonny making up a word in their mother tongue.

“Sorr- uh. What’s Ragnaro-” 

“So, I’m assuming you’re planning a mix of High Noon, Once Upon a Time, and Tales to Be Told? Obviously, I assume you’ve made more in my absence.” Nastya interrupted, seeming not to have heard Lyfrassir. 

“One, one and a half. We’re sort of in the middle of writing one, but we can run you through the basics of Ulysses.” Brian offered. 

“We could do the whole of Once Upon a Time, we haven’t done that like, once since Nastya’s left.” Tim dodged another fruit thrown by Jonny, grinning as it splattered against the wall behind him.

The conversation devolved from there into a flurry of shouting and thrown fruit after that, and Lyfrassir soon found themself excusing themself from the table, a headache building.

It was a strange mixture of pleasant and stressful, in all honesty. The tightly knit group was comforting after so long of their small, empty ship. Even when they had taken Nastya aboard, she tended to keep to herself. So the company felt nice, even if at the same time it felt overwhelming.

They didn’t have to walk long to find a door with a piece of paper taped to it, signalling the room belonged to ‘Inspector Lyf’. They frowned, vowing to make a new sign in the morning. Or at least, whatever constituted morning when you were floating out in space. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The bit about Nastya being found in Lyf's ship was inspired from a conversation in the mechscord, where we talked about Lyf finding Nastya post-Out. If you want to read a fic about that concept, I would HIGHLY recommend Wayfarers by Oblivion_Wanderer!


	5. Night is Gonna Fall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter is super short! The next chapter is planned to be quite a bit longer, however, so you can look forward to that!

“The guy’s dead.” Tim sighed, walking down the stairs and waving a manila folder in Jon’s direction. 

“Who is? Vittery?” Jon asked, pulling away from Sasha’s desk as she paused the cave recording. Tim nodded, reaching the bottom of the stairs. 

“He’s been dead for a few weeks now, apparently. Got the coroner’s report right here.” Tim handed the folder to Jon, who quickly began leafing through it.

“How did you- nevermind. I actually don’t want to know how you got it.” Jon frowned, scanning through the report.

“Good choice.” Tim laughed, sidestepping around Jon to move towards Sasha. Jon continued to look through the file, heading back towards his office. He laid the file out on his desk, pouring through the notes.  _ Death by asphyxiation… likely due to choking… foreign organic material?  _ Jon wrinkled his nose, trying to will his imagination to stay within the realm of reality. Then he flipped the page and saw the photographs. 

They were low-quality and grainy, but Jon could very clearly see the shape of Carlos Vittery, buried in a tight-knit cocoon of webbing. 

Images of spiders flooded his mind, of colossal limbs unfurling from a door frame to pull him in, flashes of blood and gore he had always imagined in the back of his head. 

People had always said that Jon should be grateful he never saw his brother’s body, but his imagination had run wild with what little description he had. For twenty years now he had been plagued with horrible images that he conjured up, that kept him up at night and kept him constantly buried in his work. If he was distracted, he couldn't imagine. 

He beat the horrible thoughts back, an action that was second nature to him by now, and returned to the report. 

~o0o~

“So?” Tim leaned on Sasha’s desk, a crooked smile spread across his face. She rolled her eyes, although she couldn’t keep the grin out of her own expression.

“So?” She parroted coyly, fingers stilling on her keyboard.

“So, how do you think our little ‘project’ is going?” 

“If you’re talking about the karaoke double date, I honestly think it went better than expected.” Sasha laughed. “I was anticipating Jon would, I don’t know, get snippy about Martin’s choice in drink or something, but they actually seemed to be getting along for once.”

“Next step; try and get him to be friendly when he’s not drunk.” Tim laughed. 

“Baby steps.”   
  
“Of course.”   
  
“Shouldn’t be too hard, though. At least I don’t think. They’ve already had one positive experience together now, so that means making a second one should be easier.”

Tim opened his mouth to reply, to make another snippy comment when Martin pushed the door open, a stack of files in his arms. 

“Oh sorry,” He said sheepishly, his face flushing. “I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”

Tim shook his head. “Nope, we were just discussing the latest case.”

“Oh, case 0150409? I’m actually about to head out, to investigate his flat. You said he died, right?”

“Sure did, poor sucker. I got Jon his coroner’s file this morning, pretty sure he still has it if you want to take a look.”

“No, no, that’s alright. I’m probably just going to talk to the landlord about his time living there.”

“Right, well, did you wanna check in with Jon before you leave?” Sasha leaned forward, folding her arms on her desk.

“Oh! Yeah, I should do that.” Martin chuckled nervously, ducking out of the room before he could catch Sasha winking at Tim. 

Martin paused outside the door to Jon’s office, silently listening to make sure he didn’t interrupt a recording. Not hearing anything, he knocked softly, and waited until he heard a slightly muffled,

“Come in.”

Martin really hoped that he was reading too much into things when he saw Jon’s brow furrow in irritation as he pushed the door open. 

“What is it, Martin?” Jon sighed, his gaze trained on the files in front of him, not even glancing up at Martin.

“Oh, erm. I was about to head out, to look into some stuff for case 0150409? I just thought I should let you know in case you, um. Need me, I guess?”

Jon’s eyes widened, staring straight ahead at nothing. “The Carlos Vittery case?”

“Erm, yeah?”

“You were planning on going to his flat?”

“Yes? Er, that’s what I usually do, so I figured-”

“Don’t.” Jon’s eyes suddenly pinned Martin to the doorframe, an intense expression of near panic on his face. Martin stammered, confusion and worry clogging his words. 

“Are you alright?” He managed to settle on. Typical. 

Jon seemed to flounder for a moment, his eyes darting around the room as if his surroundings would help him create a proper excuse.

“Yes, yes, I- I’m fine, just. Er, I was, uh. I was planning on going myself, is all. No need for you to go anywhere near it, it’s fine.”   
  


“It’s… fine?”

“It’s fine.”


	6. You'll Feel the Heat of the Flames

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry this update is a week late! For some reason, writing this chapter felt like pulling teeth, and I ended up having to cut a few scenes in order to not feel like I was trudging through mud.

“Don’t worry,” Jonny called out to the ship as he pulled Nastya onto land, “We’ll be giving her back, we're just going to go commit a few atrocities first.”

Lyfrassir grimaced, leaning against the doorframe of the airlock. “Are you always so blase about your criminal tendencies?” 

“Pretty much,” Brian shrugged, passing a box over to Toy Soldier. “They can’t exactly face any consequences, so they don’t really see the point.”

They nodded, remembering how Ivy, Raphaella and von Raum had vanished from their prison cell the moment they knew the train had arrived. Then they paused, suddenly registering his words.

“You say ‘they’ like you’re exempt.”

Brian chuckled. “I am, actually. Under certain circumstances, at least.” He paused, before taking off his hat. Lyfrassir blushed as he pulled his hair up, angling himself so they could see the back of his neck. His fingers gingerly tapped at the metal, right next to where a small switch lay. “This thing gets me into far more trouble than it's worth, unfortunately. And it’s led to me… getting stuck in some unfortunate scenarios.” He let his hair drop back down. “A few centuries ago now, I was found guilty of… Uh, witchcraft, I think. Maybe it was prophecies or something. It doesn’t really matter now, but I was sentenced to death. ‘Hung until dead’ was their exact words, and unfortunately, the switch was up, putting me in the Means Justify the Ends mindset. Meaning that I couldn’t leave, because I wasn’t dead yet, and if I left before I died, I’d be going against my sentence. Of course, seeing as how I can’t die, it was extremely cyclical and I just sort of hung there for a few decades until Mordred flew the station into the sun.”

He said it so bluntly and matter-of-factly that Lyfrassir had no idea how to respond. They blinked, opening and closing their mouth as they searched for their words, until they finally settled on, “I’m sorry that happened to you.”   
  
Brian simply shrugged in response. “Are you planning on staying here while the others do their thing? We’re going to be setting up the stage and we could use the extra hands.”

“I’m sure they’d love to Brian,” Marius called out from across the airlock, a backpack in his hand and a grin on his face. Ivy was beside him, not seeming to pay him any mind as she read. “But I’m afraid the inspector and I have plans.”   
  
“Former inspector.” Lyfrassir corrected before he could fully register what he had said. “Wait, we do?” 

“We sure do!” He tossed the backpack over to Lyfrassir. “We’re going shopping!”

Lyfrassir’s expression soured. “Von Raum, if you expect me to steal anything-”

“No no, don’t worry! We visit this planet all the time, I’ve got money!”

They eyed him warily, before letting out a defeated sigh. “Fine. Will you be joining us, Ivy?”

“Hm?” She glanced up from her book, only now seeming to notice they were there. “Oh. No, I’m actually meeting with someone.”

“Well, you guys have fun,” Brian nodded at the three of them. “I’ll be here if you need me. So will the Toy Soldier.”   
  
“Oh, I’ll see you later!” Lyfrassir called as Marius led them away.

~o0o~

The trip to the museum was uneventful, as Jonny and Tim argued the whole way there, although to Nastya it seemed that even they were unsure of the subject of the argument. Ashes had supplied them all with drinks already, but they weren’t too far gone into their whiskey when they ran into the strange little man. 

Ashes found him, hunched over an ever-growing bonfire. They had approached, but it seemed that the man had been itching for violence, even more than the four of them had. He toppled the bonfire, setting the building alight. The flames took to Nastya’s coat, and the man leapt at her with a burning ferocity. She quickly slipped out of the way, watching as the man toppled to the floor. The fire seemed to not affect him, his skin free from the bubbling and blistering they were used to seeing. It wasn’t until Jonny unholstered his six-shooter and fired a single shot into the man’s forehead did they realize why. The man did not fall, and no blood poured from the wound. He smiled, and reached up to mould the wax that made up his flesh back into place.

“Ew.” Tim grimaced. “Also, what?”

“The lightless flame of Asag has granted me this power.” The man grinned. Ashes frowned and shot him. He spat the bullet back out. “All shall be ash, and the cleansing fire shall begin with you.”   
  
“Dude, you’re like, really lame.” 

The man glowered at Ashes, but they just continued on. “Look, I love fire and destruction as much as you. Maybe more. But you are leaning  _ way too hard  _ into the whole ‘fire and brimstone’ thing. The least you could do is be cool about it like Galahad was.”

“Although technically Galahad’s thing was more about  _ preventing  _ the fire and brimstone.” Jonny corrected. Ashes shrugged. 

“Yeah, but he got a bit obsessed with the aesthetic near the end there.”

“How would you know, Ashes? Wasn’t Brian the only one actually there?” Nastya quirked an eyebrow. 

“Yeah, but he mentioned it when he was in MJE. You know he can’t lie like that.”

“Enough!” The man shouted, and the heat suddenly grew to an unbearable degree. All at once, the four of them knew what Brian must have felt inside that sun. Nastya fell to her knees, and Jonny sprinted to her side, collapsing beside her. Their skin cracked and peeled, quickly turning a charred black and crumbling away. Distantly, they could hear the man laugh, untouched by the heat. 

When they woke up again, the fire had died, and the sounds of sirens were growing ever distant. 

“Well, that fucking sucked.” Ashes groaned. “Who wants to go kill some cops?”

~o0o~

“How’s the sound equipment looking?” Brian asked, shouting across the stage.

“I Finished Setting It Up!” The Toy Soldier called back with a thumbs-up. Brian nodded, turning back to the instruments. Looking them over, his heart sunk as he caught sight of all of the broken strings. He groaned.

“Hey, I think Tim’s little explosion last night got to the instruments.” He sighed. “Would you mind setting the stage up while I go get some replacement strings?”

Toy Soldier nodded sharply. “I Sure Can, Old Chap!” It saluted, turning to work on setting up. Brian gathered his things and left, not noticing the thing that slipped inside as he did so. 

The room fell into silence, an unnatural stillness that the Toy Soldier did not particularly care for. Being with its friends was always so wonderfully loud, so the silence made it quite unhappy. It was like a reminder that it was alone. 

Well, it wasn’t really alone, it reasoned. The others would be back soon! Then they could all be loud again! That would be just jolly! And, it supposed, there was no real reason for it to be quiet, even if it was alone. So as it worked, it began to sing. 

It sang for quite a while, singing happily through every song it had written with its friends. When it found it had gained an audience, it wasn’t particularly surprised. After all, it was on stage! It would just be wrong to perform on a stage without an audience.

It finished its song with a graceful bow, and its audience clapped, her smile a lovely shade of blood. She leaned against the stage, beckoning the Toy Soldier to come closer, as if it wanted to whisper in its ear. It bent down, and she pressed her painted smile against its cheek. 

The Toy Soldier would have thanked her, if she didn’t tear into its throat, splintering the wood across the stage. Its head, no longer supported, toppled backwards and rolled across the stage, where it could watch as the very rude audience member fastened something to her own throat. 

“Oh yes,” She said, using the Toy Soldier’s stolen voice. “This one will do very nicely.”


End file.
